


Your Love Was Unmoved

by TooOftenObsessed



Series: Franklin Still Did Live [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons, The Terror - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Old Married Couple, Past Violence, Post-Canon, Reunions, Slow Burn, very lightly implied crozier/fitzjames
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 18:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooOftenObsessed/pseuds/TooOftenObsessed
Summary: Sir John survives the expedition and returns to his wife after nearly a decade. Will go E in later chapters with mature emotional themes throughout.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sir John doesn't get nearly as much attention from the fandom as I think he should! I wanted to write a quick PWP wherein Sir John lives and is reunited with Lady Jane. Initially I thought I didn't need to explain HOW he lives or where everyone else is, but the more I wrote it, the more emotionally involved I got, and the more I needed to explain. So the PWP is suddenly involving historical research and becoming an emotionally self-indulgent chapter fic. Will still go E eventually, I promise, but for now, here's the intro.

Since the disappearance of her husband some years before, Lady Jane Franklin had taken to sleeping without a fire. It seemed to her that, so long as the expedition was trapped in the frozen North, it was downright vulgar for her to indulge in the most obvious comforts of a warm, dry, and safe home. Besides, no blaze of any size could chase away the chill in her heart when she was left alone with her thoughts. 

Months ago, Sir John had been declared legally dead by the Admiralty. While she had steadfastly refused to accept the widow's pension they attempted to foist upon her, the righteous sense of purpose that spurred her through each day faded when she faced her empty bedchamber each night. Her ironclad certainty that those fools were both short-sighted and faithless could not withstand the doubts that crept into her bed alongside the cold and the dark. 

Still, most nights she did sleep. The constant humming need to  _ act _ was as draining as it was compelling, and for that, she was grateful. When she failed to work herself into exhaustion, her only nighttime companions were fear, pain, and cruelest of all, guilt. 

Guilt was never far from her side. She'd long since learned to use its hateful whispers to galvanize her will for the impossible task set before her. But, when she was alone and defenseless, it stole beneath the sheets like a lover; clinging to her, penetrating her, siphoning the warmth from her soul until her very tears felt as though they might freeze upon her cheek. 

She lay in her bed, feeling keenly how small she was, alone in the grand four-poster that John had proudly given her as a wedding gift. Tonight, she knew, was one of those nights when Guilt, her new husband and master, would arrive to take from her all she could give. There was naught she could do but to yield to the bitter grief and pray for dawn. 

A dawn that her husband had done without for months, if not years, of his life. The Arctic sun is a fickle goddess, hiding her face for weeks without end in the dead of winter. When she was younger, she had fretted over the thought of John facing that unending night, fearing that the unchanging expanse of sky would drive him mad. One cozy evening, while he dozed on the couch with his head on her lap, she’d voiced her concerns. He’d chuckled sleepily, shifted to gaze up at her, and smiled just a little. 

“ _ Ah my love, that is why I’m taking your portrait. With such radiance permanently fixed above my cot, I shall want for no feeble solar imitation. _ ” 

She’d laughed at his flattery, all too accustomed to his ridiculous flights of romantic fancy, and brushed the hair away from his forehead as he closed his eyes again. 

The memory of his soft hair beneath her fingertips was torture on nights like this; it was all too easy to get lost in the yearning, the deep physical ache his absence had left inside her body. She rolled over onto her back, kicking the blankets free to let the crisp air bite at her skin through her nightclothes. Sometimes, she was actually fond of the cold, imagining that it in some way linked her to Sir John, wherever he was. She stared at the damask canopy above, and tried to imagine, hoping against all hope and better sense, that he still lived. Not merely his life, though, did she desire; she would gladly trade her _ health _ for his if the heavens cracked open and she were given such a choice. 

She knew that these melodramatic thoughts of self-sacrifice were another byproduct of her conscience. When she faced herself in the mirror, divested of her curls and gowns, she saw only the selfish harpy who'd sought glory for her husband - and by extension, herself. The humiliation he'd suffered in Van Diemen's Land had cut her deeply. She saw his pride wounded, and hers suffered even more, unable or unwilling to bear the scorn of their inferiors. John had wilted, in Australia, brightening only when two ships stopped by on their way to Antarctica and he was able to stand on the deck of the Erebus. 

Seeing her husband, so faded and forlorn on land, smiling and laughing among his peers, she had then resolved to secure him a command back aboard a ship. He'd once been hailed as a sort of folk hero, the Man Who Ate His Boots, tough enough to survive any hardship the natural world could throw at him. But men, their petty politics and insidious gossip, had worn her stalwart lion into a pale imitation of his former self. 

So she had pushed him to return to England, where she negotiated with every friend and colleague she could reach. Sir John Ross proved invaluable, having already decided without her influence that he would not be accepting any new command, despite being the clear frontrunner for the post. Her wheedling, as always, brought results, and before long she had the Admiralty convinced that Sir John Franklin was the man to lead the last great push for the fabled Northwest Passage. It still rankled her, knowing that Sir John was not the first or even second choice; but she knew well that it was often the case that men required the guidance of women in making the right decisions. 

She smiled to herself in the darkness, thinking of how lively John had become once they secured the position. His health, which had not been sound since returning to England, was still faltering, but his spirits were as high as they'd been since she had known him. She had been quite sure that the terrible bout of influenza he'd suffered was a side effect of the toxic air of Van Diemen's Land finally leaving him for good. 

But her smile faltered as she remembered how truly unwell he had looked in the daguerreotype photograph she'd arranged to have taken prior to the expedition’s departure. It had to be scheduled well before the ships were even fully stocked, and he looked stiff, sallow, and uncomfortable. Even his uniform, one he'd worn all through their time in Australia, was ill-fitting and shabby. It was a truly disappointing likeness of the man she'd married, and now her heart broke anew at the creeping suspicion that it would in fact be the last time she saw his face. 

She preferred to remember him as he had been on the last day he took her aboard Erebus. He'd walked her around the ship, arm-in-arm as the last few workmen crawled up and down the many ladders that led to the lower decks. Some handed down large crates, others hauled sacks of grain upon their shoulders, and still more slung coils of rope around their necks as they scrambled to ensure the ship's readiness for departure. 

He'd been so happy and proud, showing off to her. He'd even been delighted at Jacko, the monkey she'd secured as his companion for the voyage. The sun streaming through his cabin window had shown off the gold buttons of his uniform which she had, of course, commissioned to be newly made and custom tailored just for the voyage. He looked, on that day, much more like the man he'd been when they first met; only the lingering sadness at the loss of his first wife was absent. 

That grief, too, she loved him for. Eleanor, his first wife, had died young. Rather than let herself be overtaken by the fits of jealousy she sometimes felt at having missed her chance to bear him a child, Jane chose to love the woman as she would a sister. They had been friends, after all, and Jane had long since reconciled herself to having inherited the care of his happiness. She was proud to have been able to heal his mourning heart, and on that day, to see him looking vibrant and happy without that pain of loss was a joy indeed. 

Only once, during that bright spring morning, did a shadow fall across his countenance. His confidence had been badly shaken during his time as lieutenant governor in Australia, and she recognized at once his tendency toward self-pity. But she would not allow him to wallow, so strode across the cabin to where he sat, looking troubled. She had given him words of reassurance, but could no longer recall what exactly she’d said. Her presence, her expression, and her love were far more important than the words themselves; she knew only that she had to soothe his anxieties with her faith in him. 

She remembered the way he’d smiled up at her with such a delicate hope, backlit in radiance by unfiltered sunlight; her cheeks grew how thinking of how she had been unusually overcome on that bright afternoon. Without a second glance over her shoulder to see that they were truly alone, she’d run a hand through his hair, awed as always in the haphazard softness of it, and bent to place a kiss on his brow. 

She hadn’t quite known herself just what she was doing; she'd only meant to ease his worries if she could, but she had found that her hand was buried in the hair at the back of his head and she couldn't stop herself from leaning close enough to kiss his lips. She was frozen for a moment, her nose not quite touching his. His surprise had been plain, and there was something deceptively innocent in the way he’d glanced at the open door. Now, in the cold and the dark, she felt again that low ache deep inside her when she thought of how his smile had turned sly and knowing. He’d stood and ducked out the door, checking that the narrow corridor was empty before easing it shut behind him. 

Alone in her bed, as ever she may well be, her pain was momentarily chased away by the distant echo of the door closing, of his boots lightly scuffing over the cabin floor, of the soft creaking of the ship beneath their feet. His voice was in her ear, warm and soft. 

_ “Why, Janie, whatever has gotten into you?”  _

She chased the memory, gasping aloud as her hands retraced the burning path left by his phantom fingers. Her need, having been unsatisfied these long years, was nearly as desperate and painful as her grief. 

At last, heart slowing in her chest and tears drying on her cheeks, she fell into sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Jane Franklin receives an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter updated 11/1 for continuity with chapter 3. 
> 
> Any mis-use of Inuktitut is my fault and should not be attributed to the characters.

Jane spent the following morning alone in her study, catching up on correspondence and thinking on where she might turn next to seek aid in the search for her husband’s lost expedition. Sophia was out of town, having gone to visit friends. Though Jane’s niece was as deeply invested in the project as Jane herself, they both agreed it was important for such an eligible young woman to maintain a social life  _ outside _ of their joint personal and political manipulations of the Admiralty. Thus Sophia left London a few times per year to get away.

Jane heard the front bell ring, and sat back to wipe the ink from her hands, lest it be some person to whom she must attend. Voices drifted up the stairs, though she was unable to discern what was said, and she heard the library door open and close. She stood, brushed a crease from her skirt, and glanced at her hair in the mirror over the side-table. Moments later, Davies, her butler, opened the door and mentioned that she had a visitor.

She strode into the library and began to greet her unexpected guest, but paused when she noticed what he was looking at. A tall man stood by the fireplace, staring up at the copy of Carmichael’s painting of  _ Erebus _ and  _ Terror _ in New Zealand that hung above the mantle. It had been a gift from Sir John when they first bought the house in London, and had remained fixed in that position ever since. She had considered replacing it many times; she always felt an acute sense of loss upon seeing the ships on canvas when she would never see them again in life. However, removing anything from the house which had been placed by John’s hand was unthinkable.

She cleared her throat, and her genteel smile froze on her face as he turned. His shoulders were broad, but he stood slightly stooped to one side, as though weighed down. His clothes were shabby and mis-matched, a shapeless sack coat hiding his frame. His boots were scuffed and broken-in, his hands rough where they gripped a battered bowler hat. His hair was thick and slightly wavy, grown so long it was nearly curling at the base of his neck, but its former robust color had been leached out to a faded steel grey. A dense beard of a lighter shade hid many of his features, though she could see that the jawline beneath was both strong and familiar. His brow, deeply lined where it sat above his aristocratic nose, told of much suffering. 

He dipped his head and bent at the waist, holding his hat to one side in a courteous bow. When he stood straight again, a lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, giving his cautious glance at her face an almost boyish quality. In that fragile moment the questing, hopeful glint in his eyes confirmed the fulfillment of every hope and dream she’d had for nearly a decade. 

“Lady Franklin,” he said simply. His formality freed her from her awestruck silence. 

“Sir John.” She curtseyed, grateful to have an excuse to glance away from that careworn face. A thousand words threatened to break free from her lips, but she had too many questions to know where to begin. So, she fell back on the established niceties of polite society, and gestured to the sofa by the window. “Do sit, please.” She was struck by the absurdity of it, giving her husband permission to sit in his own home, but she didn’t know how else to proceed. He nodded to her again.

“Thank you, my lady.” But he faltered, his face becoming stricken for a moment, before he turned back to the fireplace and grabbed a cane she had not noticed leaning against the brickwork. He leaned heavily on the walking stick, favoring his right side, and his gait was stiff-legged and awkward as he limped to the seat she had indicated. It took every ounce of willpower she had to prevent herself from rushing to his side and offering assistance. She didn’t dare.

Jane turned away and rang the bell to summon tea, hiding her face from him. When she turned back, he was seated with his right leg stretched out in front of him, sitting stiffly against the cushions. She smiled at him thinly, then fidgeted nervously about the room until the tea arrived. She took it herself and dismissed the butler so they could speak privately.

After she poured two cups, she faltered momentarily when she tried to recall how he took his tea. He saw her hesitation, and spoke up kindly. 

“Black is fine, my Lady, thank you.” She handed his cup, then settled herself next to him. They sipped silently for a minute or two, then he set his tea on the little table to his left and turned back to face her. “You must have questions.” 

“I do, but I must say, I scarcely know where to begin.” He nodded, giving her time to gather her thoughts. A notion struck her then, and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Do the Admiralty know you’re here? Do they know you’re… alive?” If those fools had somehow kept this from her… But he smiled a little, detecting her ire, and shook his head. 

“Francis, James, and I determined that it would be the most sensible course of action to see our next of kin before we approached the Admiralty. Once we re-establish our relationship with Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, our time may cease to be our own.” She was absurdly moved by his consideration for a moment, but she was well-practiced at holding tears at bay, these days. She redirected the conversation swiftly. 

“Francis and James, they’re here? In London?”

“All the men are. All who survived. We’ve put up in various hotels or rooming houses. We thought it best to split up, avoid attracting too much attention, before we’re ready to face the authorities.” The threatening prickle in her nose vanished as she realized the implication of his words.

“How long have you been here?” She almost let the irritation creep into her voice; the idea that he might have been lurking just under her nose was as tantalizing as it was frustrating. He heard her tone, and smiled a bit wryly. 

“Most of us, just a day.” He raised a hand as if to pat her wrist, then thought better of it and slowly rubbed his palms together. “Francis, James, and I are staying together, with Thomas Blanky, Drs. McDonald and Goodsir, and most of the other officers nearby. I’ll be heading back there to regroup before we contact the Admiralty, perhaps tomorrow or the day after.” 

She took another sip of her tea, unsure how to respond to this statement, so she felt it safest to change the subject. 

“What can you tell me?” She bit her lip. “I mean, what are you able to… no, willing perhaps is better… ” She winced, embarrassed at the anxiety she heard creeping into her voice. He cleared his throat.

“I’ve thought much about what to say. The things I will tell the Admiralty and what I may tell you are mostly the same, but there are a few important differences. Let me see, where to begin…”

He spoke at great length, recounting in detail the months the ships spent at sea after departing, his tale continuing without pause until the winter during which they anchored at Beechey Island. While he’d spoken, morning waxed into afternoon, the light streaming in through the window behind them brightening into a burnished gold. His tone never lost a matter-of-fact, military candor; not even when he recounted the burial of three of his men at Beechey Island.

Jane knew that such loss was to be expected, at sea, but also knew that it hurt him every time he lost a man under his command. He had always taken a deeply personal responsibility for every soul on board one of his ships, but of course had to become inured to the pain that accompanied their deaths. It was what made him, in her eyes, such an outstanding commander. He went on. 

"When it became clear that summer would not come to our aid and break up the ice, I sent teams of men out with sledges to attempt to find open water through which we might sail lifeboats." Here he paused, and she felt a need to interject. 

"Seems very sensible." He closed his eyes, as if in pain, and held his hand up to stop her from speaking further. 

"Lieutenant Gore was in charge of one of the teams." At this, she turned and set her own cup aside. Gore she had known, if only briefly, and she remembered that Sir John was deeply fond of his lieutenant. "His was the last to return, none of the others having found anything promising leads through the ice. Graham was dead when they arrived, killed miles from Erebus." She gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. "What I will not tell the Admiralty - what I am in fact  _ afraid _ to tell even you, is what killed him." He paused again, then sighed heavily before pressing on. 

"The ships were  _ hunted _ , for lack of a better term, by a massive creature all through that winter and early summer. We thought the attacks came from white bears at first, though some of the men claimed to have caught glimpses of an enormous alien beast moving on the ice. It was a monster that killed Graham. Goodsir and the other men saw it at close range. The story was confirmed by two Inuit that came back with the team, a young woman and her father." 

"Good heavens," she whispered. He glanced up and met her eyes then, searching them for a moment, perhaps trying to see whether she believed he'd gone mad. 

"I was angry." For a moment, she could see the rage in his eyes, bringing a kind of fire back through the weariness and fear. Then he looked away again. "I was determined to see that Graham had a proper funeral, and then I decided that we were going to kill the creature." He sat back a little and rested a hand on his right thigh, rubbing it lightly. "We set up a blind, a trap. We hoped to lure it in and kill it." Then he fell silent, staring across the room. She waited, trying to be patient; she wished somehow to comfort him, but she knew it would not be welcome, not at this juncture. Still, he would not speak, so she prompted him. 

"And did you manage it?" He laughed as if surprised, a bitter curl of his upper lip betraying what she'd already suspected.

"Oh no. It was too smart by half to get caught out that way; it saw through our little scheme and used it to trap us instead. It killed one of my marines, and  it almost killed me." She felt herself stop breathing, thinking of the cane, of his stiff-legged and awkward shuffle to the couch. She'd guessed that he'd been injured, but she hadn't wanted to believe it had been such a close thing. 

"It took my right leg above the knee. The only thing that saved me was the old man, the _angakkug,_” (this word was unfamiliar to her) “who put his body between mine and the thing. The last thing I remember before I lost consciousness is the sight of him standing, arms raised, in front of this huge white creature with a bear’s form but a man’s eyes. It might have been the blood loss, but I thought I heard him singing to it.” He risked another glance at her face. "Sounds incredible, doesn't it?" he asked. She blinked away the tears standing in her eyes and shook her head. 

"I don't know, Sir John. Anything you could have told me, after all this time, would sound incredible.” She tried not to look at his hand where it rested on his thigh, tried not to picture what mangled horror lay beneath the rough wool trousers, tried not to imagine the pain he had suffered. 

“I suppose that is true. Well, I owe my life to the  _ angakkug _ -” this time he noticed her confusion. “Ah, I’m sorry my dear, to the shaman, the old man. I owe it to him, to his daughter Silna, and Dr. Goodsir.” She pursed her lips. 

“Did Dr. Stanley not-” He laughed again, more bitterly this time. 

“Dr. Stanley was of the medical opinion that I could not be saved. Dr. Goodsir was more, well, naive is perhaps a bit unfair, but he always was an optimist. I was not conscious, but as far as Francis has told me, Goodsir was able to use his anatomical knowledge, along with much of Silna’s folk wisdom, to save my life. If not my leg.” 

Jane shook her head. This was almost too much to take in.

“So then, Francis took command?” Her incredulous tone betrayed her mind. That boorish, persistent, infuriating drunk? In command of the expedition? 

“I won’t have you being critical of Francis. He’s proven himself capable beyond anything I could have imagined. He, ah, evidently sobered up by sheer force of will while I was unwell. Then he gave the order to abandon ship, and when I finally came back to myself, we were among the Netsilik, Silna’s people. They cared for us, as most of the men were ill, and they took us in as their own.” She tried to imagine him living among the native inhabitants of the frozen North, and couldn't. Then she frowned. 

“But, why did you not return home once you were all strong enough?” She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice, but perhaps she failed, because he nodded and gave her an apologetic little smile. 

"I was coming to that. You see, the old shaman was dying. Not quickly, but he was. He couldn't travel far, and he was needed at home. He was teaching Silna his craft, his knowledge of the great bears and other creatures that live in the Arctic. The Netsilik would not allow any of us to leave without an escort; they insisted it wouldn't be safe." It was her instinct to scoff at this uncivilized superstition, but the deadly seriousness in his eyes gave her pause. 

"You believed them." It wasn't a question. 

"I did. I don't know how to explain the things I've seen, but God help me, I did believe them. I still do." She reached for her tea with shaking hands, gulping it down to steady herself before setting the empty cup safely aside again. 

"So then why come back now?" She fought against her impatience with his tale, knowing it must be costing him much to tell it.

"Inuksuk, the shaman, decided that Silna was finally ready to set out into the wilderness without his supervision. She agreed to bring us South." He swallowed thickly, his still-dark brows knitting together in sadness. “I believe Inuksuk sent Silna away so he could die.” He turned away from her, picking up his own tea and draining it slowly, thoughtfully. 

She observed his profile, taking in both the familiar and unfamiliar lines of his face. She could still see the man she'd known so well, beneath the new beard, the pain, and the time that had passed. But there was something else there, a certain quality that she might have called brokenness, had she dared to give it a name. When he set the tea aside, he glanced at the clock, then out the window. She was startled to realize just how much time had passed, and her stomach clenched with fresh anxiety at the thought of letting him leave her sight again. 

“Would you stay for supper?” She tried to keep her voice from sounding desperate.   
“I must meet with Francis and the other officers, I’m afraid.” He smiled sadly, politely, dismissing her with the practiced ease of high society.

“Well, why not extend them an invitation as well? I’m sure we can accommodate them.” He frowned and shook his head.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to put your kitchen out.” 

“Nonsense, I must insist. We will certainly be able to put something together for such a small party. I won’t hear another refusal!” She didn’t want to say  _ why  _ she was insisting, to say that she simply  _ had _ to have a promise that he would return to her that evening. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but perhaps she failed, for his brow knit further and he nodded slowly. 

“All right. I shall retrieve my men and return here this evening?” She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling at the relief that swept through her. 

“That would be excellent, Sir John. I should very much like to see everyone. I’ll let the staff know to prepare for our guests.” His lips quirked a little at her use of the possessive plural, but he let it slip by without further comment.

“I must warn you, we are rather a shabby bunch these days. Not exactly the kind of uniformed officers’ party to which you are accustomed.” He reached out and placed a reassuring hand on her arm. 

Tentatively, moving slowly so as not to spook him, she rested her free hand over his, and smiled as brightly as she could through the tears standing in her eyes. 

“I shall be quite, quite glad to have you, in whatever state.” He held her gaze a moment longer, then quickly turned his eyes away and picked up his cane. She blinked her tears away and quickly stood to ring for her butler, making sure to provide him what privacy she could as he struggled to his feet. Her heart ached to offer an arm or a shoulder to lean on, but how could she know if such a gesture would be welcomed? Better to give him his space.

When her butler came in, she passed along instructions to him that she would be having guests for dinner, and that the cook was to spend whatever might be required to get supplies and assistance in short order. When she turned to bid Sir John farewell, she almost couldn’t find the words, even with Mr. Davies waiting to show him out. 

Sir John again spared her further embarrassment by offering his hand, bowing his head, and murmuring a quiet “until tonight, my lady.” She cautiously placed her hand in his, failing utterly to hide how she was trembling. For a heartstopping moment, she thought he might ghost a kiss across her knuckles, as he had often done when they were courting. Instead, he released her and strode away, his shoulders squared and head held high despite the noticeable limp in his gait.

She passed a few further instructions to Davies, and indicated her desire to rest during the remainder of the afternoon. When he offered to send up her maid to help her, she waved him off. Once alone, secure in the privacy of her room, she finally allowed herself to feel it all. The pain, guilt, and love were powerful, but the sense of relief was so great as to be overpowering. 

Though she couldn’t find the strength to sob aloud, the pain was too great for that, she shed tears in the daylight for the first time since he’d left her so long ago. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane has some of the members of the expedition over for a small dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this section and ended up cutting a fair bit out because I felt it was largely OOC. It's not very well-edited, so expect some changes as I go back and review later, but I really wanted to post something since it had been so long.

Once she’d overcome the shock of seeing her estranged husband, long presumed dead - even, in her darker moments, by herself - Jane went downstairs to oversee the preparations for her guests’ arrival. Upon seeing the elaborate table settings, the candelabras and multi-course silver set out for polishing, she realized that perhaps the more formal arrangements she considered standard would merely make the men uncomfortable. They were, after all, used to living with the - what had Sir John said? - Netsilik people, and might be out of practice with such pageantry. She quickly consulted with her staff, and made a number of changes. She decided on bowls of fresh fruit as the only table decoration beyond simple candlesticks, and simplified the courses as much as possible. It wouldn’t do to overtax the potentially delicate constitutions of these heroic English citizens finally returning home.

She knew, at least in her rational mind, that none of the men were starving; Sir John himself had only looked slightly shrunken, and that could well be on account of his ill-fitting clothing. Still, it was impossible to fight the urge to give them what care she could. The years spent thinking of what she would give each and every one of them, had she only been able, still weighed more heavily on her conscience than she dared admit. Her head knew they were safe at last, but her heart had not yet given up the habit of worry.

She hadn't wanted to reveal many details to the staff; none had been in service before Sir John left, and it wouldn't be wise to have rumors of the miraculous return reach the ears of the Admiralty before John himself did. Still, they all realized that her mood had changed dramatically from the placid, calm resolve they were used to seeing from their mistress. She could see it in the glances exchanged between the butler and housekeeper, but did her best to ignore it. 

Back in her room, when her maid asked what she'd like to wear for the evening, Jane froze. It had been years since she gave much thought to her appearance; that morning she'd been wearing a simple blue dress, one of her standbys, and no accessories to speak of. If this were a true society party, she'd want to step out looking like the lady she was, bedecked with jewels, unhindered by sorrow. But these circumstances were entirely unfamiliar. What is appropriate attire to greet a party of ghosts?

While she dithered, her maid brought out several gowns for her evaluation, but none proved satisfactory. It occurred to Jane then, that she might have subconsciously tucked something away for just this moment. 

"Bradshaw, please fetch the pink dress from Miss Marlowe's." Her maid looked puzzled for a moment, then realization dawned, bringing with it a different sort of questioning look. 

"Of course, just you wait here," the smart young maid didn't presume to question her selection. The piece was one Jane had purchased on a whim the day that the Admiralty had declared Sir John and the entire expedition lost. Upon hearing their proclamation, she'd been overwhelmed with fury. Driven purely by spite, she set out at once to purchase something that would fly in the face of her unwilling widowhood. She'd decided on a gown in a dark rose color, with a cream lace trim and matching gloves. By the time the garment was delivered to her home, weeks had passed, and she had overcome her fit of denial. She had known immediately upon opening the box that such a color and cut was utterly inappropriate for her station, regardless of whether her husband was merely absent or in fact dead. 

But now, perhaps the lively color would brighten what threatened to be a maudlin evening. It was impossible for her to know what kind of mood the men would be in when they arrived, but it couldn’t hurt to be as pleasant as possible. Her mind flashed to these men, trapped for years staring at a dismal landscape, devoid of all but shades of grey. 

Besides, John had always liked seeing her in shades of red.

***

They arrived all at once, looking more like a ragged band of homeless outcasts than representatives of the Royal Navy. The men filtered through the door almost too quickly for her to mark their faces. These figures were both familiar and strange to her. Just a glance or a turn of phrase could render one recognizable, but it was often fleeting, lasting barely a moment. She had known many of them so briefly that it would have been hopeless to recover their identities under ordinary circumstances; much less across a distance of seven years, hundreds of miles, and immeasurable hardship. 

Some gave her just a cursory hello, introducing (or re-introducing) themselves quickly before passing through her into the foyer. Thomas Blanky she knew at once; his blustering good cheer was utterly untouched, despite the fact that he was limping, though not nearly as heavily as Sir John had been that afternoon. He followed her gaze to his leg, which was ungainly-looking and obviously false. A huge grin broke out across his face.

“Aye, Lady Jane, I’m one of the ones who didn’t make it out intact. It’s not all bad, though, your husband and I can share costs on pairs of shoes now that we’re back in the land of good English boot leather.” She pursed her lips and smiled politely, unable to match his humor in such circumstances. His expression dimmed a bit, and he bowed his head a little in deference to her concern. “I’m just fine, my lady, as is Sir John. Physically, at least, most of us are strong as ever, despite our missing bits.” He moved along before she could ask what he meant by that, and she was swept up with greeting the rest of her guests. 

Francis Crozier was the most changed. The man she remembered was small and surly, his eyes clouded by drink and by a bitterness for which she had never been able to forgive him. He had been entirely absorbed in his own concerns, caring nothing for anything outside himself. He had, she supposed, felt that the world owed him something. She understood that attitude; she herself had never ceased to expect personal triumph. In Crozier's case, though, rather than taking action to seize his due, he simply sat and complained when it wasn't laid at his feet. His pursuit of her niece Sophia was objectionable not only due to his circumstances, but due to his abrasive and selfish nature. Jane's opposition to that match was one thing she'd never yet had cause to regret.

This person she did not know at all. Despite the lines of suffering that time had etched onto his face, his expression was open and clear. He stood tall, looking quite as hale as when he left, if not more so. The easy, calm confidence he displayed in ushering his men inside was utterly foreign to the angry Irish lout she had once known. She realized with a deep pang of sadness that they were in fact his men, Crozier's men, and no longer Sir John's. The way they each deferred to Francis as they came in, and the way he observed each of them with a careful eye, made that fact inarguable. 

“Lady Jane. It is truly my great pleasure to see you again.” He bowed and took her hand, as warmly as if they’d always been the greatest of friends, and she found herself fighting back tears again as she thought of what he must have endured. She mumbled an incoherent greeting and let him past her, still watching his every move with wonder.

The most startling difference she found was in his behavior toward James Fitzjames. She saw none of the mutual disdain she'd witnessed so many years before. The two men had never liked one another, oftentimes (when Crozier was in his cups) their animosity barely stopped short of outright hostility. Now, though, they were as natural with each other as lifelong friends. James was much subdued, almost seeming shy compared to the blustering confidence he'd once shown. Francis, on the other hand, was charming and polite. He had not a trace of the surly entitlement from which she had so desperately wanted to shield her niece. 

The rest of the men filed past, looking bedraggled and lost, and she quickly ushered them into the dining room, hoping that once everyone was seated, Sir John would make some introductions. Then she realized, with a violent shock, that her husband was not among the men who had traipsed through the foyer. 

“James!” She nearly shouted, and Captain Fitzjames turned and bowed to her again. She placed a hand on his wrist and tried to control her voice. “Do you know why my husband is tardy?” Understanding dawned in the tall man’s eyes, and he patted her hand lightly. 

“Of course, yes, I am sorry, I should have told you. Sir John has been delayed at the inn; he had to make arrangements for the care of the animals while we are all absent. Neptune is quite an old man now, and needs looking after. And of course, Jacko is such a reprehensible little thief, we simply have to make sure she stays contained lest we be forced to assume responsibility for her mischief.”

Stunned into silence, Jane simply nodded, and gestured that he should follow the rest of the party into the dining room. The memory of tiny hands and feet clawing their way gently through her hair, her joyous laughter at the little creature’s energy, and the amber sunlight framing her husband’s face almost brought her to tears. 

She shook herself, and proceeded into the dining room, where her guests were already tucking into their simple meal with a relish that was just shy of impropriety. Instead of being irritated by their eroded manners, she was overcome with a wave of tenderness for each of them. The conversation remained light, and she found herself repeatedly losing focus as she strained to hear a sound from the front hallway over the artificially light chatter of the men. Her ears were alert for the creak of the door, the scuff of a boot - but there was another unexpected pang of loss; Sir John’s tread would no longer sound sure and strong, but would be labored and halting. 

Biting her lip, she turned to James again - he and Crozier flanked her on both sides - and asked him what few idle questions she could conjure in her agitated mind. He smiled less easily than he once had, but he sensed her unease, and graciously took over the direction of their conversation. 

“How are your family, Lady Jane? I do hope they are well.” She smiled then, her heart warming at the thought of her husband’s three darling grandchildren. 

Before she could answer, however, Captain Crozier’s voice rose above all others, and she turned to find that he had risen to his feet. Following his gaze, she spied Sir John, who had come shuffling in while she was distracted by Fitzjames. John looked much as he had that afternoon, though he had divested himself of the shabby overcoat and stood in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. 

Crozier strode rapidly to Sir John’s side and took him by the arm. Jane fought back a rush of jealousy at the thought of her man needing such care from anyone but her; then with a rush of gratitude she realized that Francis was not so much assisting her husband as guiding him away from the far end of the table, where he might have sat in prior days, to the chair at her side that Francis himself had just vacated. Sir John allowed himself to be led willingly enough, and Crozier took up his plate and cup before moving to the empty seat at the far side of the room. She didn’t miss the way he caught Fitzjames’ eye, nor the nearly imperceptible nod that James sent back, and wondered at their ability to communicate so without a word or a gesture. 

She turned to Sir John then, seated at her left, and smiled thinly. Now that her anxiety at his absence was past, she was able to study his appearance more closely. He had slicked his hair away from his face with some sort of pomade, and it made him look rather severe in a way she didn’t care for. She made a mental note to instruct him not to do so again, but caught herself; it was entirely possible that she no longer had any right to guide his grooming habits. She pressed her lips together, chiding herself for her presumption. 

He seemed to feel her gaze upon him, and turned to catch her eye, searching her expression with a gentle intensity she knew quite well. He reached out and patted her hand. The gesture was calculated to reassure her, as he always had, even when he didn’t begin to grasp the source or her distress. 

The momentary brush of his palm against the back of her hand was all too brief; had she been able, she’d have turned her hand over and clasped his, in spite of all the other people in the room. But he withdrew, looking slightly awkward, and cleared his throat before turning to speak quietly to Dr. Goodsir, who was seated at his left. She, in turn, glanced at Fitzjames, realizing belatedly that she had abandoned conversation with him quite rudely. 

“Do forgive me, James, I have forgotten your question entirely.” 

***

After dinner, they had moved into the drawing room. Most of the men milled about, chatting easily amongst one another, as familiar and comfortable as brothers, but Jane herself stood apart. She had nothing in common with these people, not really, not anymore, and her stilted and awkward attempts to draw them into conversation throughout the meal left her feeling like an intruder in her own home. Francis and James stood shoulder-to-shoulder by fireplace, their eyes constantly surveying the rest of the room. 

Sir John stood at her side, braced against his cane. The awkward silence stretched out between them, and she had to choke down a defensive, nervous laugh, when they both spoke at the same time. 

"I wonder if -" 

"You have done -" 

They each paused, and shared an embarrassed smile. Eager to hear his voice, she gestured for him to continue. 

"This has been a fine evening, my lady. We cannot thank you enough for such a reception. It has been both pleasant and…" he rubbed his chin with his free hand, fingers scratching lightly through the coarse gray hair, "most appropriate. A very comfortable reception back into English society." 

"Thank you kindly, I did try to avoid extravagance." He smiled, but it was swallowed up by a tight little grimace as he shifted his weight. 

"As always, your judgement was quite correct." He held her eyes a moment, then glanced down and parted his lips to speak before hurriedly remembering himself. "Do excuse me, you were saying?" 

"I only thought, surely you cannot expect the Admiralty to comprehend your tale." 

"Do you believe it?" His voice carried a trace of humor, his eyes a hint of mischief beneath the fatigue. 

"I scarcely know what I believe, anymore. It is incredible; but I detect no madness in the telling of it, from you or the others. I think I do, truly. But I shouldn't think that Sir John Ross would put much credence in such a fantastic story." She tried to keep the disdain from her voice; her relationship with John Ross had been fractious since he had so cruelly crushed her husband's spirit prior to the departure of the expedition. 

"Yes, my dear, you are quite right." She felt a tiny thrilled at the thoughtless little endearment. "We have determined to describe it as no more than bear attack, and keep most of the, ah, supernatural elements out of our account."

"That strikes me as wise." He glanced down again, then looked around the room. 

"That gown is quite fetching," he murmured softly, without turning in her direction. She was grateful his gaze was averted, for his words inspired a hot flush that crept up her neck and across her cheeks. 

"I am quite glad you approve." She turned from him this time, seeking a moment of relative privacy. When she looked back, he was again shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"Oh goodness, you must be tired of standing!" No sooner had she spoken than Harry Goodsir appeared at her side. He offered Sir John a shoulder and assisted him across the room to a settee, where he might elevate his bad leg. 

Having seen his patient reclining in relative comfort, he made his way back to Jane's side. He clearly intended to launch some conversational overture, but Jane was determined to give him his due before the opportunity was lost.

"I understand that it is to you that I owe my husband's life," she interjected hurriedly. He paused, smiled a little, and blinked rapidly as he cast his gaze to the floor. "Sir John gave me the story this afternoon. "

"It was only partly my doing," he tilted his head. "I merely prevented him from bleeding to death on the ice. Ultimately his life was saved by the wealth of medical knowledge applied by the Netsilik people. I could not, with the tools and compounds we had with us, have saved him from blood poisoning as they did." 

A chill settled over her at his words, and a little involuntary gasp slipped between her lips as she pictured the scene all too vividly. He saw her dismay immediately, his brow furrowing in kind concern. 

"It is nothing so terrible, I assure you. I have no wish to distress you. It has been many years since the incident, and Sir John has adapted as well as I could have hoped. He healed well in body, if not entirely in spirit." She grasped as his wrist. 

"Whatever do you mean, Dr. Goodsir?" Having heard him referred to as such, and given the extraordinary debt that her family now owed him, it cost her nothing to refer to him as such. 

"Well, you see, he is physically as hale as any of us, but since the attack, Sir John has been uneasy in his mind." She must have looked quite pale, for he patted her hand gently. "Nothing so dreadful as you imagine, I assure you! Only that he sleeps poorly, when he is able to sleep at all. I have tried to persuade him to use a sedative, only sparingly, you understand, but he has refused my offers entirely these several years." 

Her concern gave way to a gentle, familiar warmth; this was the man she loved, who abhorred any substance that might tamper with his mind. She let a small smile creep onto her face, and risked a glance at the sofa where John lay reclined. She had avoided looking in that direction, lest he recognize that she was speaking of him, and was surprised to see his eyes closed and breathing even. It appeared that in the mere minutes they had been conversing, he had fallen asleep. Goodsir followed her gaze, and when she caught his expression, it was one of deep thought. 

"What is it, Dr. Goodsir?" 

"I only wonder, what I mean to say is, I believe Sir John intended to return with us this evening. We intend to see the Admiralty tomorrow. He will likely awaken before we depart, but if he doesn't, I would hate to disturb him from such relative peace." 

"Oh yes, certainly. If he does not wake of his own accord before you all depart, he has a place here." Even as she spoke, she (somewhat selfishly) hoped his doze remained untroubled and she might have a plausible excuse to keep him close. 

It wasn’t long before the men filed out, having realized the late hour and Crozier thanking her kindly for hosting them, and casting a sidelong glance at Sir John where he lay still asleep. 

“He will be quite alright with you, I trust.” Crozier’s concern was evident in his eyes and his jaw was clenched tight as he held her gaze. 

“Certainly.” The captain nodded curtly, then spoke again, seemingly unable to stop himself.

“He may have unsettling dreams.” Jane smiled and touched his shoulder.

“Dr. Goodsir informed me of his condition. He shall not be left unattended, and I shall see that he is with you tomorrow to speak with the Admiralty.” Crozier nodded curtly, the noticed Fitzjames had hung back waiting for him 

"Good evening, Lady Franklin." She bid him good night, then turned back to her sleeping husband. 

That careworn face, so familiar in repose, transported her back through the years in an instant. He had slept much like this, feverish still from a nasty case of influenza, on an evening shortly before the expedition departed. She had been sewing a flag for him to take aboard Erebus, and he had been incensed when he woke to find she had laid the finished end over his feet. At the time his superstition had amused her; his subsequent disappearance had cast it in a much less whimsical light. 

But this memory, so fraught with contradictory feeling, stirred her to action. She fetched a quilt and extinguished most of the candles in the drawing room. She considered his awkward posture, half-reclined like a Roman at supper, and considered urging him into a more comfortable position. In days past she would at least have removed his boots, but the knowledge of the artificial limb such an action would reveal held her back. He might not welcome such an intimacy from her. 

She spread the quilt over his knees, and couldn't quite resist the compulsion to smooth his hair away from his brow. He shifted slightly beneath her touch, but did not wake, instead shifting downward and settling more deeply into the cushions of the settee. 

Reluctant to leave him, she took a place at the armchair by his feet. She would take herself to bed in a little while, but for now she couldn't bring herself to leave him. 

The fire burned low, and the few remaining candles started to gutter and burn out, but it mattered not; Jane, too, was asleep. 


End file.
